


Best be called lonesome

by gloss



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Domesticity, F/F, Texts From Last Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 17:05:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4067794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(804): <cite>I'm so cold without your freakishly high body temperature</cite><br/>(804): <cite>that's the equivalent to a normal girlfriend's 'I miss you' btw</cite> [<a href="http://textsfromlastnight.com/Text-Replies-60923.html">TFLN</a>]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best be called lonesome

**Author's Note:**

> alternate post-series; title from Replacements, ["I'll Be You"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k6cud1gp4RE)

Ida calls from Atlanta to tell her that the flight to Duluth is delayed. "Don't bother driving up," she says, "okay?"

Molly has just gotten onto Route 2, as a matter of fact. "Okay. You sure?"

"You bet," Ida says. "No sense in it."

"Miss you." She tries not to sound disappointed -- after all, Ida is only delayed by several hours. "Be safe?"

"You, too."

After tapping the button to hang up, Molly cranks the car's heater and checks the rearview mirror. Bernie is asleep in her car seat, mouth open, cheek squashed against one strap.

"Mama's going to be a little late," she says.

Bernie scowls, but doesn't open her eyes. She blows a big raspberry, wet and loud.

"My thoughts exactly," Molly tells her and slows for the exit heading back west, and home.

Her knuckles hurt, even with the heat all the way up. She never used to feel the cold like this.

*

Back at the house, Bernie sheds her parka and boots faster than seems possible according to any law of physics, and goes running off to her room. Molly stands just inside the front door, still wearing her coat. She's rarely home at this hour -- late afternoon, before sunset -- and even more rarely without Ida. But she'd taken the afternoon off, surprised Bernie at preschool, and bundled them both up for the drive to Duluth.

Now she's looking around the place as if she's never seen it before. Not quite like a crime scene; more like a theater set or shot in a movie, the kind of thing that makes Ida grab the clicker to hit pause so she can study the composition.

In this light, silvery-dim, the walls seem just this side of insubstantial. The afghan over the back of the couch is washed out, autumnal rather than cheerfully garish.

After hanging up their coats and tidying the boots on the tray, Molly rubs her arms, roughly, trying to bring up warmth. It'll be dinner time soon. She had planned to stop at her dad's on the way home from the airport and, truth be told, she has not been very diligent about groceries this week that Ida has been away. Bananas for the monkey, cream for her coffee, that's the extent of fresh purchases she has made.

Bernie has Ida's sweet nature (and Molly's own expansive palate) and happily gobbles down the baked beans and a fried egg Molly cobbles together. Fiber and protein: she has come up with worse.

She gets into the tub with Bernie at bathtime, shaking out liberal amounts of one of the bath bombs Ida buys in the Twin Cities so they have bubbles to play with and the scent of Mama to share. While Bernie plays an intricate game of naval warfare, rubber duck versus honey-squeezebottle bear, Molly drifts a little, willing the water's warmth to seep into her. Against her, their little girl is slick and antsy, humming to herself, muttering commands, never still.

As soon as the water drains out, however, and she stands up, lifting Bernie out with a feigned "oofdah", the cold returns. She knows there's nothing wrong with the furnace -- Lars Magnusson-Pyle came over and serviced it before the first snow. Besides, the radiator is hot to the touch. She draped the towels over it before turning on the water, and Bernie squirms and giggles, oohs and ahs, at how good the big towel feels when Molly wraps it three times around her and scrubs her dry.

As soon as she unwraps the Bernie-burrito, Bernie takes off running, white and pink, hair standing up. That girl never walks when she can dash.

"Slow down," Molly calls, pointlessly, and dries off as quickly as she can before bundling up in her favorite wool robe. Her hair is damp on her neck, not wet enough to blow dry, but chilly enough to be uncomfortable.

She's been letting Bernie sleep with her this week. It reminds her of the early days, when it was the three of them, Mama and Mommy and tiny perfect monkey, all of them so careful with each other, so cautious, so bowled over by love they couldn't think straight.

Well, maybe not Bernie. She's always known her own mind and has never been shy, even as an infant, about sharing it.

*

It is nearly morning when Ida gets home. Molly feels the bed dip behind her and reaches back, blindly, thinking it's the kid. But Bernie is curled up in front of her, fist jammed against her mouth like someone trying to stop themselves from sharing juicy gossip.

"Mornin'," Ida whispers, molding herself to Molly's back, slipping her arm around Molly's waist. Her hand is hot as a car seat in July, her mouth on the nape of Molly's neck hotter.

"Hey," Molly whispers back. "Drive okay?"

"You betcha," Ida says, somehow drawing closer, nudging one knee against Molly's, tangling their feet together. And, slowly, surely, the heat off her spreads across the bed, wraps Molly up, holds her tight. "You okay?"

"Better," Molly says. She has an hour and a bit before her alarm goes off, but she doesn't want to sleep. Just lie here, radiant. "Warmer."


End file.
